


be careful making wishes in the dark

by electrumqueen



Category: Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Gen, M/M, limited narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:39:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electrumqueen/pseuds/electrumqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LFN/Nikita 2010 AU. It's different, Agron thinks, when it is a mission you have chosen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	be careful making wishes in the dark

They get out. It’s bloody and ugly and no amount of showers will get the grime out from under Agron's fingernails, but it's not like he wasn't used to that. They flee to the safehouse Spartacus arranged by just being him, by sheer force of personality, and sometimes Agron wonders if maybe Spartacus shouldn't have bothered with the bomb but just _willed_ Batiatus to stop breathing.

Spartacus stands straighter, but he moves like a man with weights on all his limbs. Crixus drinks and disappears and comes back worn out, tired; his contacts just don't hold up without the weight of the program behind them and nobody knows where Naevia went. Mira fixates on everyday battles, on where they're going to get milk and the generator's fraying cords and whatever this thing she's doing with Spartacus is. And Agron - Agron doesn't know _what_ he's doing, but it's weird, to think that he doesn't answer to anyone anymore.

That's bullshit, though. Agron answers to Spartacus. In this, in everything. In anything Spartacus could ever ask of him.

Agron is in the basement, training for a war he's never going to fight: fists slamming into the punching bag, knuckles connecting with concussive force, enough that he can't hear himself think for a moment.

"Agron." It's Spartacus, clear enough to cut through any noise, through any force.

He stops, turns to meet that piercing stare. "Spartacus?"

"I have a mole in the program," Spartacus says, very quietly. "I have coordinates for their next mission. Are you in?"

It’s like everything was out of focus, blurry. The inhale clarifies the world, makes it sharp and true. Agron leans in to clasp Spartacus' arm: it's not even a question.

\--

"How can we trust your mole?" Crixus snarls, still on edge, bleeding from the loss of Naevia. "How can we know they won't betray us?"

Spartacus rests a gentle hand on Crixus' shoulder. "I deactivated the mole's killchip myself, Crixus. I would place my life in their hands."

"And ours?" That's Mira, cool and calm. Her eyes are clear and sharp, a question, not an accusation.

"And yours." His voice is kind but it is _so heavy_ : it is, Agron thinks, something resembling an impossibility to doubt him.

"Must be an extraordinary person," Agron says, picking at the tape on his knuckles to reveal the bruised, bloody mess underneath; he's been spending a lot of time with the punching bags, lately. When he worked for the program it was people he could beat bloody but now he is a person, not a tool.

It is different, he thinks, when it is a mission you have chosen.

“Better be,” Crixus says, running his hands through his hair. “For our sake and theirs.”

\--

Agron finds himself talking to the mole sometimes, late at night. Spartacus had said, _It's a difficult thing. Sometimes you just need a friend, a connection; can that be you?_

Agron does not know if he is actually capable of saying _no_ to Spartacus, these days (ever). Thankfully he hasn't had to.

The mole is sharp and observant, occasionally wry. They keep away from identifying information: no names, no genders even. They talk about silly things: television they watched as kids, breakfast foods they favour, cats versus dogs (the mole likes cats; Agron's always been a dog person) and it's - almost, something like, something approaching _easy._

\--

There's a message when Agron gets out of the shower, blinking on the face of the disposable netbook they've kept to stay in contact with the shell program the mole uses to keep in touch with them. _prev head of tech held at mines. exfil difficult, but possible._

_too dangerous,_ Agron types, immediately, and wipes the conversation. Crixus is enough of a loose cannon as it is, and the mines--

Too much to risk.

\--

_i'm on assignment. they're bringing her out for it. if it's going to happen it'll be now._

_that's a hell of a risk,_ Agron types.

_two days,_ the mole says.

\--

They interrupt an assassination and stagger home: Agron and Crixus first, Mira and Spartacus after, she wrapped in his coat, blood dripping from her hairline; he grim-faced, scowling.

she sits on the kitchen island with the resigned grace of routine; Agron does the math, figures it's his turn to get the medkit out from under the sink. (Just your average house rules, boys and girls; your average household for a family of _assassins._ )

"They know about the mole," Spartacus says, like he's the one with the bleeding gash, "they don't know who but they know it's _someone._ Keep your contact limited."

" _Agron,_ " Crixus teases, light for once.

Agron's hands are shaking. He daubs alcohol onto a cotton swab and swipes at the wound on Mira's forehead; shallow but ugly. He thinks, _we should exfil._ His heart is beating too fast: he is imagining ( _remembering_ ) a knife through a bulletproof vest, a bloody mouth curving around his name. "I’ll pass that information on."

\--

_they know,_ Agron types with trembling hands.

_they've been checking. i'm okay._

_exfil?_

A pause.

_no._

\--

Mira makes tea when she's stressed: stirs in the leaves and the herbs and the hot water and sits with her hands wrapped around the cup, staring out the huge, impractical windows (who'd pick Spartacus for a huge impractical house? They all wince, coming around corners, but they're safe enough to wince at least).

Agron leans over her shoulder, breathing in the hot fragrant steam. "Hey."

"Hey," she says, "oh, Crixus was looking for you."

"What?"

She turns, and her eyes are so dark and there's this strain on the edge of her voice and Agron feels his knees weaken, just a little, "Agron, is there something you didn't tell us?"

Then there's something slamming into the side of Agron's face, and Crixus' voice growling deep into the shell of his ear, " _Naevia._ "

\--

"You’re comms," Spartacus said, low and disappointed, "please make sure to pass on _all information_ , not just what you think is pertinent."

"This is a _bad fucking idea,_ " Agron said, pressing an Icepak to his ribs. The stitches under his left eye were starting to itch. "You’re all going to _die_ and I’m going to _hear it through the fucking comms_ -"

"Not your call," Spartacus snapped, and the sting of it was worse than the sprain in his wrist, the various bruises where Crixus had thrown Agron into the wall, which Agron hadn’t even fought because, well.

"Come in Red Serpent," Agron says, from the small plane he is sitting in outside an extensive series of former salt mines, converted into a prison nobody talks about; "come in, Warrior, Archer."

Three respective affirmatives do _nothing_ for his blood pressure. worse: the sound, over the tinny speakers, of Crixus breathing Naevia's name and then _run_ , of Mira's "get out, get out," of watching the three dots separate into two and one, of the one staying still, lost, alone. Of watching it blink out, disappear.

"Shit," Spartacus says, breathing harsh.

"Give me statuses," Agron says, like his heart isn't trying to _claw its way out_ of his fucking _chest,_ "Warrior, come in--"

"They got him," says Mira, every syllable slamming into Agron’s ears like Crixus’ fist, "he dropped his earpiece, it's gone. They’re on our tail, prepare for a speedy exit."

"Did you get her?" _Please make this worth something._

"Yeah," Mira says, like a prayer ( _please let it be true_ ), "yeah, we got her."

\--

"What happened?" Agron asks, hitting close on the plane doors as soon they tumble in, blood and filth getting all across the mesh flooring.

"The mole got us out," Spartacus says, the mess in his arms coughing, face turning towards Agron to reveal Naevia's eyes, Naevia's nose and mouth and tears, "but they came fast, too fast. He had to take Crixus to buy us time." As though it helps, he says, “You know Illythia’s MO. she won’t kill them fast.”

The sob shakes the air. "You shouldn't have," Naevia whispers, broken and cracked, "now I've doomed him too."

Mira slumps against the door. "There's no point," she says. "We can get him back." _We have to._

\--

_two new prisoners: crixus and oenomaus._

_you still secure?_

_as much as anyone can be. they're bringing in an outside interrogator._

_\--_

"They have Oenomaus," Agron says, "fuck knows how they got him--"

Spartacus is a straight, brilliant line of violent anger. "Into the lion's den it is."

Naevia says, "I'm coming with you."

"You're on comms," Spartacus says, looking at her - bruised, bloodied, furious - and discarding any attempt to make her stay in bed, as would be sensible.

She nods, doesn't wince even though Agron's seen the mess of her back, of her shoulders, and he knows what kinds of pain meds she's been taking, knows breathing must be a supreme act of will itself.

_black tie,_ says the mole, _it's a black-tie execution. they have the brass to impress._

_i'll bring my best stiletto,_ Agron says. Like a joke. Almost.

\--

Mira dresses in red-gold, daring slit at the thigh and very low drapery at the front; Agron whistles, wonders where she's keeping the knives, the gun. With Mira weapons are often unnecessary; he’s pretty sure she could kill him with her shoe, if she tried. The ruby necklace at her throat is, he thinks, full of sleeping gas.

Spartacus, dapper in a perfectly-tailored suit, adjusts the knife at his ankle; looks up and smiles. Agron wonders sometimes if he is being cruel, but Mira and Spartacus are ciphers both.

"You look nice," Naevia says, and goes back to fiddling with their computer system, "God, you've been running some shit hardware." (The Naevia of Agron's training would have said that, smiling; this Naevia's voice is as hollow, desperate, as her eyes.) She's wearing an old sweater of Crixus' over a pair of Mira's leggings. He remembers her hair used to be longer.

Agron raises a hand. "Hi," he says, "so the fucking bow tie-"

Mira laughs, glides across the floor to rest her fingers on the loose fabric at his throat (bare, exposed, this is how you end up dead), loop the lines through, across, under. "Just like old times."

"Pretty much," Spartacus says. His smile is as feral as any of Crixus'.

\--

It’s almost too easy to get in: Naevia still knows the system like the back of her hand, still knows how to rewrite the code so when Mira flirts with the guard a USB in Spartacus’ hand (and a program uploaded by the mole) means it’s two seconds before Agron’s face, Spartacus’ face, Mira’s face are no longer red flags but VIP list. It’s not actually an execution, obviously, but rather an evening of canapés and funding requests to celebrate the immanent destruction of the one threat to the program’s continued existence - but it’s the closest thing they’ve got to an opening, so.

“Oh,” that’s Naevia’s voice, in all their ears, “oh, they brought in _Gannicus.”_

Mira’s hand goes to her throat. “What--”

Spartacus’ throat moves, the murmur only audible because of the mic taped there, translating the vibrations to words in Agron’s earpiece, “Get word to the mole, we’ll exfil him with the others.”

Agron thinks, _this is beginning to sound a lot like clusterfuck,_ and then he thinks, _beginning to?_

\--

It’s just like any number of black-tie events Agron attended when he was on staff - same expensive dresses, expensive champagne, any number of decorations to disguise the fact that the building’s _underground,_ that there are no windows and everyone has a hard, blank stare. He recognizes a few of the people - not many, but he wasn’t Spartacus, who isn’t recognizable himself, really. They’re all trained to disappear in a crowd.

He, Mira, and Spartacus exchange a look: _disperse, until Naevia has a location_ , and split off in different directions; Agron tries not to feel naked without Spartacus nearby and snags a shrimp canapé off a circulating plate held by a slender, dark-haired ( _beautiful_ , thinks a part of Agron’s mind he tries to keep shut down, these days) man, probably a new recruit by the way his shoulders rest - angular, slightly dangerous, without the training yet to _hide_ the training. “Bad luck,” Agron says, keeping his face out of the line of the cameras (no need to make Naevia’s job any more complex), “pulled the service shift?”

The recruit laughs, balancing the silver tray flat on his palm, “Could be worse,” he observes, “I could have the champagne.”

“True,” Agron says, swallowing his shrimp (delicious, but they always are), “I had it a couple of times, during my training - pretty fucking awful. Drunks falling all over you and you can’t really say no because they all have drivers.”

A smile, “So you’re a field agent, then? I haven’t seen you around, but I’m new.”

“A bunch of us have been called in,” Agron says, remembering the mission information the mole wired them, “I’m not sure what for, though.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” the recruit shrugs gracefully. “I’m Tiberius, by the way.”

“Erik,” Agron lies. “Pleasure to meet you.” They’re all so _young,_ he thinks. Young, and free, and this place destroys everything true about them. (About you.)

_Got them,_ Naevia says, triumphant. _There’s a closet near the left exit, meet there. They’ve rebuilt since I was last here - you too, probably._

“I’ll, uh, go mingle.”

“I can see someone making eyes at these shrimps,” Tiberius says, smirking a little. “Pleasure was mine.”

_If you’re done flirting._ Naevia again.

_Shut up,_ Agron whispers.

\--

Crixus and Oenomaus are being held three floors down, on a level Agron never visited even when he was allowed to wander at will (never). Mira peels off to plant explosives at the base of backup elevator shaft – the one nobody uses, with a fortunately hotwireable elevator - and that leaves Agron and Spartacus, striding along the hallways, too familiar and yet not quite.

“We fucking destroyed this place when we left,” Agron observes.

“Clearly not as thoroughly as we should have,” Spartacus frowns, and Agron can see a plan forming behind his eyes.

“We have to get Crixus back to Naevia,” he says, “or we won’t hear the end of it.”

_Damn right,_ Naevia says, _please don’t get yourselves killed before you bring him back. Two guards, right ahead. I’ve disabled the security cameras, go ahead, do what you want._

The guards are easy - shamefully easy, they decide, looking at each other over the prone bodies - clearly the Program’s been slacking under its new leadership.

Crixus is bloody but Agron’s seen him look worse. He looks up, hair shaggy in his eyes, and grins a bloody-toothed smile.

“I’m sorry,” Agron says, “I should have told you, I should have come with you--”

Crixus just rolls his eyes. “Took you long enough,” he coughs, as they unlock his chains.

_Next one won’t be as easy, guys. Gannicus is in there, I don’t-_

_“_ Okay, question,” Agron says, “who the fuck is _Gannicus_?”

\--

Gannicus is the man standing in front of bruised, broken Oenomaus with a syringe in his hand. “This is the fastest,” he’s saying.

“For fuck’s sake,” Crixus says, gesturing with the gun in his hand, “I remember you being more impressive.”

As if on cue, sirens wail.

_Guards on their way._

_“_ Don’t be an idiot, Crixus,” Gannicus says. His suit is crisper than Spartacus’, hair golden in the light. “I had a fucking _plan,_ you idiot.” He shakes his head. “We’re under twenty feet of solid concrete, you think you can _run_ \--”

“Not so solid, in a minute.” Spartacus smirks, then sobers. “Oenomaus, it’s my fault you’re here. Please come with us.”

_Stop talking and get out, you’ll be bottlenecked in a minute - the guards must have something that triggers an alarm with heart failure. Knock them both out if you have to._

_“_ Now is not the time to fucking _debate,”_ Agron spits, and

Gannicus sighs, shoulders slumping, syringe falling from loose fingers. “Let’s go.”

Oenomaus stirs in the chains. “ _Melitta.”_

“ _Not now,”_ Agron says, grins a little to find Crixus in unison with him.

Gannicus looks at them, at Oenomaus. “Sorry, old friend,” he says, and hits him quickly in the temple. “Only way to get him to just _do something,”_ he explains, “does someone want to help me with these chains?”

_Explosion in five._

\--

Outside is a fucking nightmare - lights dimmed, emergency lighting a malevolent crimson. Gannicus has produced two Glocks from somewhere in his suit and in the light looks dangerous, deadly.

_Two routes of exit - least resistance, most resistance._

_“_ Agron,” Spartacus says, “take Oenomaus, find Mira. We’ll draw their fire.”

“Well,” Gannicus says, teeth flashing, “I don’t know about you but this is definitely how I wanted to spend my Saturday night.”

The first wave of guards round the corner. Naevia says, _hard right, now_ , and Agron gets a better grip on Oenomaus’ prone body and sprints.

\--

“Are you sure this is the right way?” It’s dark, the sirens are blaring, it’s been a fucking long time, and Oenomaus is fucking _heavy_.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not.” The voice isn’t Naevia’s, but it’s familiar. “Allow me to introduce myself - my name’s Nasir. And you’re going the wrong way to get out.”

Agron’s night vision isn’t what it used to be, but he’s pretty sure - “You’re the mole,” he says, and the young recruit in the dark suit sketches him a sloppy salute, tray of shrimp nowhere to be seen.

“I owe Spartacus a thousand life-debts,” he says, “and anything that hurts the program is a joy to behold. This way.”

“How-”

Nasir’s shoulders firm, eyes bright in the darkness. “You’re going to set off explosives shortly. You’re going to want to be outside the range when it hits. Your favourite Thundercat is Panthro; you only like waffles when they’re burnt.” There’s a smile Agron thinks, maybe, barely; it hits him in the gut, hits him hard in a way it really fucking _shouldn’t._

“Okay,” Agron says, “you’re due for exfil, let’s get out of here.”

\--

Mira is waiting by the elevator shaft, barefoot and a little bloody, a program-issue gun in her right hand, the detonator in her left. “Agron!”

“Look what I brought,” Agron says, arm wrapped around Oenomaus’ knees.

“They’d better hurry the fuck up,” she says, pale, “I don’t know how long we’ll be able to hold the exit. Get him in the elevator, who’s-”

“Your man on the inside,” Nasir says, “soon to be outside, I suppose.”

She raises an eyebrow. “All right, then.”

Agron puts Oenomaus down in the elevator, back slumped against the far corner. “The decor really hasn’t improved,” he observes, straightening - everything feels better when you’re not carrying 180 pounds of muscle.

“That’s kind of the point,” Mira says and her eyes widen and she is raising the gun and--

The sound rattles all their ears, even through the sirens.

Agron turns to see a blonde woman in a blue dress, standing behind them with a bullethole in her chest, the light flickering across her pale face, falling to her knees.

The cry is Nasir’s.

Mira says, “What the _fuck_ -”

Nasir is at the woman’s side in a heartbeat, kneeling to cradle her head in his hands. “Chadara, what--”

“I followed you,” she murmurs, barely audible, “I thought - I didn’t want to believe it, Tiberius, I told them you were loyal--”

_Detonation in one._

“Why would you do this?” Chadara whispers. “We were safe, Tiberius.” Her eyes flutter closed.

Spartacus, Crixus, and Gannicus round the corner. “What--”

“Thank fuck,” Mira snaps, “elevator--”

“Nasir,” Spartacus says, holding out his hand.

“I have the shell on a USB,” Nasir says, “you wiped the camera footage, the detonation will block the elevator shaft--” he closes his eyes, shakes his head. “If Chadara was the mole, there’s no more suspicion.”

“ _Nasir,”_ Spartacus says, something desperate in his voice.

Nasir rises to his feet, hands bloody, shaking. “I’m more use to you in here, and you know it. _Go.”_

_You’re out of time,_ Naevia says.

“ _Goddamnit,”_ Spartacus says, and steps back into the elevator. The sound of his palm against the _up_ button rings through the tiny space.

Mira says, “Good luck,” and throws Nasir the gun.

The explosion drowns out the world but they’re rising up and up and up and Agron thinks _we made it,_ but he can only see Nasir’s face, Nasir’s eyes and he is thinking, remembering

_my turn to save you, big brother_

and he drops the gun in his hands and breathes out, breathes out.

\--

“We can’t use the shell anymore,” Spartacus says, showered and wearing sweatpants that hang low on his hips. “There’s no way to contact him from within the program.”

Agron scrubs a hand through his hair. The sun is coming up; its light is too bright for his eyes. “Fuck.”

“We’ll intercept him on his next mission,” Spartacus says. His hair is dripping. “Set up something more effective. Naevia says it looks like they bought it.”

“Hey,” Mira says, gently, hair falling in loose waves around her face, “Hey. This is a victory. Imagine Glaber’s face.”

It feels good, despite Nasir under all that concrete. “He’s fucking furious,” Agron says, “fucking impotent bastard.”

“That’s the spirit,” she says, and they’re all smiling and Crixus and Naevia are wrapped in each other’s arms and the sun is coming up and that’s - that’s something new. 


End file.
